


While the Sun Shines

by Fabular_Mr_Fox



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: 1930s, Banter, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Cricket, Cunnilingus, Curtains, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, Quotations, Smut, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabular_Mr_Fox/pseuds/Fabular_Mr_Fox
Summary: "The fig tree putteth forth her green figs; And the vines with the tender grape give a good smell."
Relationships: Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 100





	While the Sun Shines

On the third day of the match, the rain finally stopped. Too late for the men on the field, who had spent twelve hours standing in the deluge, and too late for Harriet who, despite having spent most of the match under an awning, was damp to the skin and not happy about it.

Things weren’t looking good for the amateur team, despite Peter’s having come within sight of a century in his first innings. But for an overconfident partner he might have made it. The commotion in the stands had been considerable, though that had been early days and now the spectators were nearly as chill and exhausted as the players.

Not since W.G. Grace had the Gentlemen laid claim to such an asset outside their given men. The club had been after him to play in the fixture for years but he had always turned them down. 

“It wouldn’t be sporting,” he told her.

“But the amateurs hardly ever win.” 1938 being an exception that had proved the rule. Three wins in the last ten years did not a sterling record make.

“Exactly,” he said. “If I played I should give them an inflated sense of their own competency.”

This year, though, he had surprised everyone by accepting the invitation. Everyone, except for Harriet. And perhaps Bunter, though who could tell? Professionalism dictated the valet’s unflappable acquiescence to his lordship’s whims, and Bunter was nothing if not a consummate professional.

War was coming. If not next month, then the month after that. No later than the end of the year. As far as Harriet was concerned, anyone who still had faith in Chamberlain was a fool. Fear of the communists had probably kept most of the other amateurs on the side of wait-and-see, or worse, but Peter didn’t fear the communists. He didn’t _agree_ with them, but they didn’t keep him up at night.

Harriet knew what kept him up at night, and it was the idea of another war. Inevitably, impossibly worse than the last. And because he was Peter, he would step forward to serve with aplomb. She hated him for it, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Or, she would rather have the political situation _many_ other ways, but Peter she wanted only ever as himself. 

She loved the kind of man he was, even when he vexed her in the extreme. And that kind of man, receiving what he knew might be the last invitation to participate in a venerable old English institution soon to be buried beneath the rubble of a global cataclysm, would accept. Even if he found it a bit silly. Because he was sentimental, under all that pretension. And because he was a crack batsman who would no doubt relish the opportunity to go up against some of the best professionals in the game. If the world was going to end, why not play cricket while one could?

So here he came, the last batter in the final innings, white pads muddy at the knees. A ragged cheer went up from the stands--from both sides, noticed Harriet, feeling not a little smug--and Peter raised a slim, magnanimous hand in acknowledgment. He looked tired. Anyone would, after nearly three days on the pitch, but Peter looked _tired_ , existentially. He centered himself before the wicket, bat cocked, and though his form was perfect, it lacked a certain vitality. From this far away, Harriet couldn’t swear that he smiled. But some connubial sympathy made her certain that he had. The weary, indulgent smile of a man who knew he was beaten and didn’t half-mind.

The amateurs were far behind. Both teams were wet and exhausted. The spectators had thinned to a few dozen diehards. Peter squared up, gave the batsman the same wry look he gave Harriet when she asked for one more hour alone with her manuscript. The bowler ran at the crease, wound up, and let off a low, fast ball that came skimming close to the mud. 

Peter knelt to it, angling the bat. A flawless performance of intent and effort which yielded exactly the result Harriet realized he had planned for:

The ball cracked against the stumps.

Expostulations from the crowd--some cheers, some boos, mostly expressions of shock. The great Lord Peter Wimsey, bowled out on the first over. It might have looked like hard luck to them. It was actually a mercy killing. He could have carted the ball all over the field, racking up runs, shaving a few inches off the gap between the Players and the Gentlemen. But there was little hope of closing it allogether, and the game had been going on quite long enough. There was no point or purpose in dragging it out. 

In the aftermath, people began to file out of the stands. Harriet stood and stretched. As she leaned back, she saw the sun break through the clouds at last. They might even be home in time for tea.

#

Back at Audley Square, she collapsed onto the trusty old Chesterfield in the library. The grate was cold, of course, and she had an unseasonable wish for a pile of hot coals. A bath would do as well, however, and in a moment--just a moment!--she would summon the energy.

The library door opened for Peter, and closed behind him with a reassuring click of privacy. For a breath, he stood and regarded her--she willed down a blush, because she knew she looked a fright--and then, since her sprawling left him little room, settled on the rug. 

“What’s next?” she asked, settling a hand on the back of his neck. “Charging after pheasants?”

“A retriever?” he asked. “One tends to empathize with their loyalty and doggedness. And I suppose I have been called worse.”

“A saboteur, perhaps?”

He let his chin rest against her hip. “D’you mean to say you disapproved of that little demonstration on the pitch? Thought you’d be glad to get out of the weather that much sooner.”

“I could have been out of it yesterday if you’d pulled that stunt in your first innings.”

He looked wounded. “Ah, hubris. Can you fault me?”

“Only in this: we could hardly see your batting through the rain.” She kissed the top of his head, where his hair was stiff with sweat and the impurities of London precipitation. “I thought for sure you’d bundle yourself straight into the bath. I was just about to, only it felt so good to sit down.”

“I prithee, don’t.” He turned his head, pressed his nose into her lap, and took a deep breath. She felt the air move through the weave of her skirt, the silk of her stockings “‘The fig tree putteth forth her green figs; And the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.’” Another deep breath, and the increased pressure of his sharp cheekbone against her thigh.

She knew what he was after, and she was disinclined to let him have it until she was cleaned up. “More like soot and sweat and the dubious muck of Lords. You aren’t much better.” She crunched his filthy hair between her fingers. “In fact, I’d say you’re worse.”

Between her fingers, the strands of his hair grew taught. He was shifting his weight, she realized, sitting higher, and now he had tilted up his face and caught her eyes. How he managed to do it she was never sure--his gaze was a trap she always fell into, ice which always broke beneath her unsuspecting feet. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, voice low with mischief. “Much, _much_ worse.”

“ _Peter_.” She tried to make it sound quelling, and feared that she had failed. The weight of his cheek, his lyrical voice, the nearness of his mouth to that most delicate part of her... But she was filthy and exhausted. He couldn’t possibly want her, in that way, like this. “Please.”

He sighed and set the point of his chin on her leg, looking up so that the wells of his eyes were like clear water. In their surface she saw her own reflection, her reticence and prudishness and...what, not fear? 

Moving her hand to his cheek she looked more deeply, past her worries, and saw his fear below her own. Of course he had more right to it than she did, this man who could hardly speak of what he had endured in a war they all thought must be the last. Who could not give an order, not even to his valet, because to Peter orders had an indelible air of death about them.

She had been still and silent too long. Peter blinked, furrowed his brow. “I cry your pardon,” he said, all playfulness gone. “Shall I stop?”

Shame warmed her cheeks. Not at the state of her dress or hair, or the smell of her after two days in the rain and one in the steaming sun. Shame that she should still fail this test, when she had been given the answer so many times.

Every day she woke certain she had dreamed it all. Or that she was one careless word away from loneliness and ruin. Surely Peter would look at her over breakfast one morning and realize she was dull, homely, and embarrassing. But it hadn’t happened yet. And when he looked at her like this, she could remember that it never would. 

Certainly Peter feared the coming war and all its chaos, but in this moment, she understood what she was seeing. The twin to her own foolish fretfulness. Peter was, to use a charming American colloquialism, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

With the pad of her thumb she smoothed the fine wrinkles at the corner of his worried eye. “I prithee,” she said, leaning down to place a kiss where troubled thoughts had broken the smooth plane of his high, white brow. “Don’t.”

He too smelled of sweat, and she tasted it against her lips: salt and oil, drying dust. “‘Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south.’” She kissed the corners of his eyes, and when he closed them, kissed the delicate lids, veined with green. “‘Blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.’”

His eyes fluttered open, the lashes feather-light against her mouth. Fear had been replaced by disbelief and wonder and this, too, she recognized. It was what she felt, whenever she remembered she was his.

“Mon cher couer,” he said, unsteady.

“Idiot,” she said, and bent to taste the honey and milk beneath his tongue.

#

Harriet had hardly been a blushing virgin when she married Peter. Her state had not embarrassed her; in fact, she could hardly imagine him taking interest in such a specimen. But the fact remained that while Harriet had dabbled, Peter had made a thorough study of the subject, as he did every subject which interested him.

With her skirt pushed above her hips, the tufted leather of the Chesterfield slipped against her stockings, and stuck to her skin above the welt. The air in the library was cool despite the season--Peter kept it dark most of the time for his incunabula--and each draft made her shiver. By vibrant contrast, Peter’s cheeks pressed to the inside of her thighs were hot, and his mouth much hotter. The long fingers of his left hand held him steady on the glossy upholstery, pressure turning his manicured nails bloodless and white. The fingers of his right hand were engaged in more vigorous activity, the results of which caused Harriet’s legs to shake. 

She had not been a virgin when she married him. But he had been the first to touch her like this: with lips and tongue and hands and no aim but her pleasure. To her shame, and his righteous indignation.

“You may have been with other fellows,” he said, “but never with a gentleman.” And he proceeded to show her what a real gentleman was.

The gulf between their experiences was yet another reason she was convinced he must grow tired of her someday. But perhaps he fretted over what she thought about his past exploits. What a pair of fools they were. 

After he brought her off he lifted his head, already smiling. Damnably composed and smug, if a little pink across his cheeks and the bridge of his beaky nose. His flaxen hair was mussed where she had grasped it, used it to pull him closer.

“Ça m’a fait plaisir,” he said, half-rising. “Commes tous jours.” Putting a knee to either side of her, he climbed onto the chaise and kissed her soundly. The first time, she had blushed and quailed to taste herself on him. Now she let her lips part under his, and lifted her hands to slide beneath his jumper and begin work on his shirtfront.

“Still ain’t repulsed by the sight of me?” he asked, once she had gotten the mess over his head in a tangle that would no doubt alarm Bunter in the extreme.

“You could do with a little extra pudding,” she said, pinching the scant flesh at his waist, “but otherwise you’ll serve.”

In response, he flung his weight against her and sent her sprawling across the Chesterfield, then took a large but gentle mouthful of her breast through blouse and brassiere.

“If you stain that chiffon with your slavering,” she said, “I’m not sure it can be saved. And it came from Paris.”

“Where I am sure we can find many more,” he said, and gave the other side equal treatment. 

“ _Peter_ ,” she said, and grabbed him by the hair again. He laughed and imitated the doggy smile and panting tongue of the retriever she had earlier compared him to.

“Are we not enticing your mind from another subject of almost equal importance?” she asked, giving his head a shake.

“Hm?” he looked genuinely puzzled. In answer, she rolled him over and popped the buttons of his fly.

“Even a mole may instruct a philosopher in the art of digging,” she said, and bent to give them both a little taste of Paris in the comfort of Piccadilly.

She could easily have finished him like that, and almost did--she liked to, at times, for the knowledge that she could quite calculatedly bring him to climax while she kept her head about her. A petty little boost to her own ego, perhaps, but she liked to see Peter so undone and for once feel she had him at an advantage. 

Today, however, he cupped the back of her head and held her still. “Mon bonheur, ma vie, s’il te plaît. Je t'en supplie.” In between blandishments, his breath came raggedly. “As the actress said on an auspicious occasion, I’ve only got one show in me. And I’d like to make it a duet.”

Fair enough, and she wouldn’t mind it either. It was always easier for her, the second time, and the third. This was another particular skill she could feel proud of, if she must compare herself to Peter. Never mind she had done no work or study to earn it. 

“Where would you like me?” she asked, sitting up between his knees.

“About eighteen inches this way, I should think. If you’d like to try it differently, I’ll do my best. But I warn you, at present I’m not in the fittest condition for acrobatics. In fact, I’m absolutely fagged.”

“Well, to spare you any further toil…” she tugged his trousers off and flung them away.

He grinned up at her and asked, “What needst thou have more covering than a man?”

“Oh,” she said, reaching for the first button of her blouse. “Bringing out the heavy artillery, are we?”

But it was a wrong step, and though he kept a brave face she saw something crumble underneath it. Before he could paste an aphorism or an attribution over top his discomfort, she fell forward and covered his face with kisses.

“Oh, Peter. I didn’t think.” About what, she didn’t say. They both already knew. “I just get caught up in the back-and-forth and these silly things just come out.”

His cheeks softened into a sad smile under her ministrations. “I wouldn’t put up with you if you didn’t. Get caught up, that is. Heaven knows silly things come out on my end, too.”

Kissing him once more, on the end of his parrot nose, she said, “I’m rather hoping I’ll get something silly out of you this afternoon.”

“Well then. Off with that happy busk.”

She was gentler with her poor, long-suffering blouse than he had been, pushing one pearl button from its hole at a time. Having not yet moved the requisite eighteen inches, she was afforded a fine view of Peter’s increasing interest in the proceedings, which only served to increase her own.

When she had finished with the buttons, she flung the blouse over one shoulder.

“Do be careful,” Peter said, pale eyes mocking. “I’ve heard that came from Paris.”

In answer, she slipped the hooks of her brassiere free from their eyes and sent it tumbling after the blouse. Hitching her skirt up higher, she slipped her panties aside, unwilling to bother with struggling out of them. The panties had also come from Paris, and her stockings too, and all of it would be utterly spoiled by this adventure. But as Peter had said, she could replenish her stock next time they crossed the channel. Providing the channel remained crossable. 

But hang that line of thinking. At this moment, at any rate, when she had her husband at her mercy and quite happy about it.

She moved up and felt the sharp bones of his hips on the inside of her thighs, which were still sticky with sweat and his earlier ministrations. When she had settled, with some exclamations on both sides, she lay herself across him and simply breathed him in. He did the same: she could feel his chest rise as she exhaled. 

“Frightfully sorry,” he said, “I must reek something dreadful.”

“A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me,” said Harriet, lips moving against his ear. He did reek, of sweat and fear and sex and the cricket pitch, and she minded not at all. “And he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.”

“There you are,” said Peter, cupping his hands around the outside curves of the relevant features. “Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori.”

“You know as well as I do that’s a tragedy.”

“Omnia.” He shifted his hips, moving within her. “Even context.”

Pleased to learn she rated above correct interpretation of the Eclogues, Harriet took the hint, and duly yielded to love.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a holiday fic exchange. I was THRILLED to get a Harriet/Peter request. There isn't nearly enough Harriet/Peter smut on this site (though what there is, is CHOICE), so I went hard.
> 
> One of my favorite slow burn-y things in canon is that Harriet can’t get it through her thick head that Wimsey REALLY LOVES HER, and I imagine after she finally accepts him he probably secretly just thinks she’s being nice. DORKS.


End file.
